


Open Windows, Open Doors, Welcome Home, RPF, Chris/Karl, NC-17 (image heavy, author's notes)

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Embedded Images, Literary References & Allusions, LiveJournal, M/M, Pretentious poetry and art references, Unhappy marriage, fic import
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:10:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please note the warning mean!Natalie as plot device.  This is rpf.  If it's not your thing, please don't read, and don't troll.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Open Windows, Open Doors, Welcome Home, RPF, Chris/Karl, NC-17 (image heavy, author's notes)

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the warning mean!Natalie as plot device. This is rpf. If it's not your thing, please don't read, and don't troll.

God. This always happens. I start off writing what’s meant to be comment porn, prompted by my own cascade of pics on the Fourth of July at [](http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/profile)[**jim_and_bones**](http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/) , and then 14 pages later, it’s all plot plot angst plot poetry lit!kink angst plot OOH WAIT THERE’S THE PORN. Oh. And Karl’s kids. And mean!Natalie. Schmoop at the end. Ridiculous, really.  The author's notes and lit!kink is after the fic.

\--  
It was pretty pathetic.

No. It was plenty pathetic.

But hell—he was leaving for home and who knew when he’d going to see Chris again?

_Right click and save._

Call him a Google Images whore, Karl Urban wasn’t too proud to start a password-locked Photobucket account with all his favorite pictures of Christopher Whitelaw Pine, especially not after tonight’s sterling performance left him all melancholy and shit as Chris got carried off by his castmates for a “small, private” party. At least Chris had the grace to look apologetic—but then, Chris always looked graceful—just how he was. And in any event, _Inishmore_ was still in previews-- Karl was lucky Chris had gotten him tickets. Only the fact that he was going to be home for fuck knew how long guaranteed him a seat on the opening night. After all, he was going to be gone on the morrow, homeward bound even if Simon and Garfunkel didn’t know shit about what was waiting for him. It said something when he’d rather be on the road or L.A. than back in New Zealand, when a year ago, two, he’d been turning down films just to stay home. Now, if someone would just send him a script, anything really.  
Instead of doing the rest of his packing—not that he had all that much to do, he _did_ own the house, it wasn’t like most of the stuff couldn’t stay here except for the clothes that were his favorites and those personal items he _had_ to take back, like the things he’d picked up for Hunter and Indy.

He’d never gotten around to getting something for Nat, not that things hadn’t stayed strained during this whole “break” they’d been on. He doubted it’d improve when he got back, though at least he’d held up his end of the bargain and tried to be civil—discreet. She was the one getting snapped by the paps coming late out of nightclubs, making Karl’s friends from home send concerned emails he couldn’t give good answers to because “I know” or “she’s going to do what she wants” or “just because she gave me permission that I haven’t taken doesn’t mean squat” weren’t answers he was going to give.

Even if he did ogle his friend Chris too much, online and in person. It was stalkerish, really, which was why he’d said nothing, done nothing—well, that and the fact that there was no hint whatsoever that Chris liked guys at all in _that_ way, all the “Quinto bromance” to the contrary. He knew full well he was too fucked up to start anything with anyone, really, much less someone he liked as much as Chris—much less someone he liked as much as Chris and with whom he’d committed to working with for at least two more movies.

So, yeah.

 _Right click save_ it was.

He especially liked the pics of Chris smiling, because it wasn’t something Chris did a lot on his own—his default expression seemed to be solemn. If you told him a joke, got him involved in a prank, he’d laugh, smile, all of that jazz—but left to himself, or the random papstalker pics of Chris walking around, the kid did not smile—it was a scowl or a serious face, nothing too happy about him. He was taking the fame thing seriously, working his ass off, one film and play after another, not that Karl blamed him, you had to work while your star was on the rise, all of that shit. But still—it didn’t look like Chris was really that happy, his understandable annoyance with the paparazzi aside—that and his starfucker girlfriends, and why the guy couldn’t meet a nice girl who could string two words together when it was clear he was a brain, the way he lit up when Quinto got going about some new book that he’d read or Karl started ranting about the news of the day?

It was a quandary, and nothing Karl could do much to solve, not when his own life was fucked up enough that his own wife had decided that after all of their time being together and Karl being faithful (and damnit, it wasn’t like he hadn’t had constant offers, not to mention temptation) that she was the one who was bored.

So ogling it was, that and hanging out with his good buddy Chris and trying to get the occasional smile out of him when they shot pool at some dive or went for a hike or did “something manly that Zach would just whine his way through,” as Chris liked to say with an evil grin on his face and a twinkle in his impossible eyes.

Sometimes, he’d even clout Karl on the shoulder, that or pat him on the arm or the back, standing close during events because he was Karl’s friend and trusted his friend even as Karl _right click saved_ all of the pictures of the two of them together at the different events he could find and saw—what? He wondered. Saw the way they stood close together and thought—well, Karl thought he looked possessive—Chris just looked at the camera with that same serious look he always had, since he rarely smiled for the camera. Saw a few where Chris stood by him and laughed, unabashed, and tried to remember what it was that maybe he’d said that’d been the cause of that laughter, so maybe he could repeat it again in the future, the next time he saw Chris again—whenever that was.

Hell, maybe by then he’d even be less of a maudlin, moody, fucked-up sonofabitch pissed that his wife didn’t want him, even if he was pretty sure at this point that he didn’t want her back either.

He’d just uploaded—fine—an image for his wanking-off pleasure, because fuck knew how old Chris was in the picture, it was black and white and his shirt was all open and his treasure trail was just—nggh—and damn, but he looked kind of young, not like Chris still didn’t sometimes, enough that it made Karl really feel old, older than the dirty old man he already was, lusting after his friend when Chris came to him, a little wide eyed and vulnerable and seeking advice about how to “chill out” and “deal with the paps” and “not be such a tool, I am aware that I am,” as he’d said not too long ago after getting harassed while he’d been out trying to go fucking grocery shopping.

Karl had tried to be wise and mellow and shit but really, no one followed _him_ when he tried to buy milk. Then again, his eyes couldn’t stop time and inspire poetic thoughts like Christopher Pine. So mostly, when the paps were stalking Chris a little too hard, he let the kid hide at his place, sulk on his sofa and read one of his numerous books, run in the canyons up behind the yard until he came back shirtless and sweaty and Karl had to not look, until the kid’s tantrum passed and he could stop hiding out and get on with his life. He always took himself out to the yard and the hammock whenever Nat called, or the kids, gave Karl his privacy, all of that friendship respectful shit that was just who Chris was-- and if he didn’t go out and do any shopping, he did call the groceries in, a luxury Karl still couldn’t get used to and something they apparently didn’t have in the neighborhood where Chris’ apartment was located.

“So why don’t you just move?” Karl had asked him, when it was clear his own neighborhood wasn’t nearly so photographer-ridden.

Chris had shaken his head, for once struggling for words as he watched Karl—those eyes of his piercing, like there was something he couldn’t just say and wanted to will into Karl’s brain.

After a while, he finally said—“I guess it’s just … I feel like … it’s something I’ve got to get over, but it’s taking me longer to do than really it should because it feels wrong and yet I can’t stop the way that I deal. Like I’m kind of picking at the scab, instead of letting it heal.” He’d shrugged wanly and said “Besides, Silver Lake is where everybody but you lives, and I like to be close to my friends.”

Karl hadn’t had anything more then to offer—so he'd leaned over and ruffled Chris’ hair. “Then you’d better get over it, kid, and move on. Some shit just doesn’t change, no matter how much you hope that it will.” He’dve said something more, but one of his children had called, and when he’d come back, Chris had been engrossed in one of Karl’s books, one that hadn’t come out yet in the States.

But this mulling was getting him nowhere, as was watching the pics in the slideshow option they offered, the pictures of Chris—and more painful, the pictures of he and Chris, together but not, sliding by like a kind of fireworks show—and after a few more maudlin minutes of staring, he decided he’d had enough self-flagellation.

Ignoring his hard-on, he got up and went back to his bedroom, tossing in the last few items of clothes. It was already one in the morning, and if he didn’t at least try to sleep he’d be a damned surly bitch when he got off the plane sometime—tomorrow?—yesterday?—he never could do the math on the dates—when he finally got home.

Home. Hah.

He dropped in the last few pairs of pants, his favorite trainers, wrapped the models he’d nicked from the set for his sons in his favorite plaid shirt, the one Chris always made fun of, then set those toys on the top.

He was just zipping that duffel closed and setting a few things in his carry-on while he made sure he had room for his iPod, a few books, some movies, his laptop, when he heard Chris’ voice.

“Karl?”

He always forgot the kid had a key—but wasn’t as surprised as he could be that Chris had swung by, since he knew he was leaving tomorrow. He was thoughtful like that, and lord knew they’d kept later nights than this on the set.

“Yeah, just a minute,” he said, tossing in two more books—volumes of poems Chris had given, though he’d put off reading them for whatever reason, maybe because Chris had looked so intense when he’d said those particular ones were his favorites.  Maybe Karl just couldn’t stand knowing, not when there was so little he could stand to know about his own life right about now, not when there was so much else about Chris he wouldn’t ever have insight into.

Maybe the distance would do him some good.

When he walked out to the living and dining room area, carry-on bag in his hand, Chris was standing in front of his laptop, one of his hands poised over the keys.

Oh.

He’d left that one window open. He somehow set the bag down on the table, the thing gaping open just like Karl’s life now suddenly was.

Chris looked up at him for a minute. He was still in his costume from earlier on, the black jeans and tight grey tee of Padraic, the black scuffed-up boots-- but he was all _Chris_ in the face and the eyes, not the mad, manic terrorist up on the stage who’d been so fucking brilliant Karl hadn’t been able to breathe. This time, Chris’ look and intent were unfathomable—at least until he spoke.

“I don’t have that one—that’s a good one of you,” he said, his voice quiet and tentative, like this was thin ice instead of L.A. at the start of July.

Karl circled—wary—and it wasn’t that last shot of Chris—the one he’d referred to in his head as wank-worthy, because he was awful like that, but one of the earlier ones he’d uploaded, one of the ones of the two of them laughing, way back in Sydney, though in this one, Karl’s the one mostly doing the smiling to someone off-camera, and Chris—Chris was looking at Karl with this smile on his face that Karl had interpreted as the lingering remnant of whatever joke Karl had told.

Then he reined his thoughts right around to what Chris has just said—come out and admitted with that same vulnerable look that he got when he came to Karl for advice. _Chris_ had a stash of photos of Karl—just like Karl did.

“You’re straight,” he blurted out, because it was the only thing he could think of. Except, well, there were all those pictures of Chris and male friends out and about. Still. If he was interested, why hadn’t he said anything? The more he looked at that picture of them, the more he saw clear, unbridled affection, more than just friends. How had he never seen it before?

Chris’ face tightened as if he was disappointed in Karl. “You’re married. Straight or not on my end isn’t an issue. _Married,_ Karl.”

Karl couldn’t help the sour mutter escaping, almost a growl. “Not really.” He’s been friends with the kid through all of this time, and this was just coming out now? Men really did suck. He’ll have to call Zoe tomorrow.

Chris tipped his head, looking pained, then shook himself like he’d been hit, a little bit pale, a little bit sweaty. “Not really isn’t an answer.”

Karl looked at him, raked his hand through his hair. “I don’t have more of an answer than that.”

Chris looked down at the computer, pushed some button—Karl feebly hoped it was save but couldn’t bring himself to say so aloud, not with that look on Chris’ face-- and gently closed the computer before he looked back up at Karl. He stepped into Karl’s space, the warmth of him seeping between them long moments. Karl could feel himself getting hard just smelling Chris—hearing him breathe, watching the way his hair flopped on his forehead.

“Well—think about this. One door closes, another window’s left open?” His eyes sparkled for a few seconds at the very bad joke before they became sad again, like this El Greco Magdalen or one of his Evangelists that Karl had seen, all long lines and shadows, elongated hands and grief and youth in his beautiful face-- but then Chris' hands were all business as he held the sides of Karl’s face and kissed him just once—not deep and not long—but with serious purpose, intention and passion and promise of things Karl had wondered about but not bothered to dream.

“Figure out if there’s an answer,” Chris said, then let go of Karl’s face. He wasn’t smiling—he was totally solemn, and damned in this moment if there was a thing Karl could do to cheer either one of them up, not with that cascade of pictures in that open window laying them both bare, all accidental.

“If I don’t hear from you after a while, I’ll assume that the answer is no.”

He turned and walked off like the act was causing him pain—but he left the front door open behind him. It was all Karl could do not to chase him out into the street—he had to go home and straighten that out, no matter what.

It was a long time before he could close the open door Chris had left and finish his packing. He couldn’t reopen his laptop and see what Chris had done with those files—he’d make himself wait until he got to the plane.

\--

In the cab, he couldn’t resist just one text. He hadn’t slept the whole night, and wouldn’t sleep on the plane—he never could do, and wasn’t one for seeing the doc for Valium or any of that transcontinental flight shit.

He had Chris’ number by heart, from all the times they’d gone out for beers or just exchanged calls or general snark, and his fingers dialed—muscle memory, the only part of Chris that his fingers knew.

All that time—well, it hadn’t been wasted, because would knowing have gotten Karl straightened out any faster? He still had to do this himself.

_Did that open door have extra meaning, or were you just being melodramatic?_

Five minutes later, Chris’ response was a YouTube video of Simon and Garfunkel’s _Homeward Bound_ , with a line underneath that said _You love your kids, but everything else that waits for you there seems mediocre, not that you’ve said. I think the road’s home for you. And my door is open. Figure it out._

As he sat and waited for his row to be called, one more message lit up his phone.

_Also, if you’d just read the Auden and Larkin I gave you, you might have figured it out, you illiterate moron._

Karl couldn’t help but throw his head back and laugh, startling looks from the people around him—that was the Chris that he knew, and some proof that maybe this wasn’t entirely hopeless.

_Leave it to an English major to say it with books and not use his words. I'll start them on the plane ride, I promise._

And then he shut off his phone, pulled out the smaller of the two books of poems, and noted it was Chris’ personal copy or something like that-- all marked-up with pencil, notes in the margins, words underlined and passages marked, particular poems starred in the table of contents.  He set it back into his bag, deciding to leave it until he was cocooned in first class and could be left alone.  As usual, but it was something he was used to, at least.

By the time he was two hours into the flight, his head was overflowing with words, his heart overflowing with all the loneliness and feeling like an outsider he’d been trying to deny he’d been feeling for these past two years and more—and of course, it had all been there in that book if he’d just read the damned thing, and he was practically shaking at the thought of reading the Auden, which was the man's entire, collected works and three times as thick.

Had he been so obvious all of this time?  Or did Chris just know him so well—or feel such complementary things about loneliness and being an outsider as he watched other people live lives and felt his own to be cold, as Karl had-- did-- then shared that with Karl with such fearless compunction in a volume of only thirty-two poems—what was he going to know about Karl in that huge, compendious volume?

He set it aside with cold hands, courage gone for the moment, and watched some of the movies he'd brought, the volume glaring at him from its place on the tray table beside.

In the end though—as the pilot announced the descent into Auckland, he couldn’t help a peek at the table of contents. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it’d give him something to look forward to, some kind of structure. If he knew how many poems he had to read every night for however long he was here, it would be something—a hedge—against what would be inevitable long days with Nat, trudging through, making do, figuring out what he wanted.

But only one poem was marked, with a small, penciled star—so he read it.

“Sir? Are you alright? Do you need some water? A tissue?”

Karl looked up at the stewardess, her kind open face, and realized—well, he must’ve been crying or something as he’d been re-reading the thing, and he’d crumpled the edge of the page under his fingers.

He’d had these books on his nightstand for three months, since his birthday, when Chris had handed them over along with a bottle of his favorite booze and some new video games even Karl hadn’t had wind of.

He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, and yeah, it was wet. “No. Thanks. I’m going to be fine.”

She nodded, like she didn’t believe him, then said, very kindly, like he was an incompetent child, “If you could please put your tray table up, we’ll be on the ground in ten minutes.”

He nodded. Closed the book with a pang and put up the tray. Looked out the window into the harbor to what—had been home for so long but now way just one more destination. Then he zipped the book into his carry-on and wiped his face on his sleeve—a blue denim shirt Chris used to make fun of and Karl’d play along—say “that thing is older than I am,” and Karl would retort “this milk is older than you are” and hell, none of it was actually true, but the point was the joke and Chris’ smile.

\--

In the area outside the ramp up from the plane—before he went down to get his checked luggage—before he went down to meet Nat and the kids, because she’d emailed to say they’d be waiting, he sent Chris a text.

_Indifference is the most I fear from one man at the moment, that and the stars that tell me to go right to hell. Can I have a smile that I haven’t uploaded from somebody else?_

It was asking a lot. But he was making a promise of sorts—and already giving an answer.

The picture came as his bags clonked onto the rotary bit, and he let them go round as he looked at the tired smile and message.

_Now you. I missed one terribly all day._

He gave his best smile as he held his phone at arm’s distance, hit the camera button, then typed in _Home as soon as I can, though this might take me a little time,_ and hit send.

Nat and the kids entered just as he lowered his arm, and he smiled at his boys but made the universal “just a minute” gesture as he finished sending the text.

“Who was that for?” Natalie asked.

She didn’t lean in for a kiss even as the kids climbed all over him. “Showing a friend I’d gotten in safe,” he responded.

“You really needed a picture for that? Data plans are expensive.” she asked, her eyes narrowed and sharp. So this was how it was going to be—he was a damned movie star, and she was harping about the cost of his cell phone.

Karl nodded. “I really did.”

\--

It took him nearly three months. They didn’t email or text or call all that often, first because Nat was suspicious and second, because as Chris said once when they’d talked on the phone—“I can wait, and honestly, talking to you just makes it harder than knowing at some point you’ll be back. I keep myself busy.”

The loneliness that crept out in his voice that was only now apparent to Karl made him feel all kinds of asshole, but he didn’t say so aloud—that or “I love you,” because one never knew about small ears and it was bad enough when he and Nat argued, though he’d had news aplenty from friends who seemed to have just been waiting for Karl to get home to spill all their news.

Not that he wanted to know—he just wanted out, that and the kids.

A month and a half in, he sent Chris a text, a make or break one, at least in his mind. _How do you feel about kids?_

Two minutes later, he had his answer. _Stretch marks would kind of ruin my look and mess up the movies I’ve got under contract. Other than that, I’m glad they’re too old for diapers._

He laughed until he cried, tears leaking out of his eyes as he sat on his deck and looked out over the glittering bay, then scrolled back to that picture Chris had sent him that day that the airport. Tired, wan, but still smiling, a picture taken for _him,_ no one else.

He flipped back to the main menu and called up his lawyer, even as he hit play on the slide show on his laptop. It wasn’t nearly the same, but knowing Chris had his own? It was a kind of connection.

\--

He didn’t tell Chris until it was officially over—didn’t want to jinx it somehow—and then, for the first time, the paps took and interest and were all waiting outside of the courthouse, lights flashing and mics jammed in his face. Nat looked self-satisfied, and he was damned glad all over again that he’d gotten custody and refused to pay one cent beyond dividing whatever property they’d already owned—that and stayed faithful—all over again.

“I have no comment,” he said. “Other than-- seeing as she’s the one who tipped you off, I guess she thinks she needs the press.” He walked off with a smile, his hands in his pockets, one hand on his phone.

Ten minutes later, it buzzed, a vibration that ran all the way through him. It was a fucking small world despite all the distance, what with digital cameras, the internet, all of that shit.

_When are you coming home?_

He punched in the number, waited for the line to pick up—but it went into voice mail. He still left a message.

“As soon as I can. I’ve got the house half packed already. The kids have one weeks left of camp. Just … leave the door open?”

\--

He got the kids settled, ordered groceries in that trick he’d learned first from Chris, called up his agent to let her know that yes, he’d made it back and could start a new round of auditions at the end of the week, snorted at her glee because “did she have some juicy ones for him, everyone loves the wronged father, not that I’m making light, sweetheart, but still…” He laughed, told her it was okay—because somehow, it was, and hung up the phone.

It was mid-afternoon. The boys had his number. They’d met the neighbors next door first thing this morning and knew how to use the ten-digit call system. And it wasn’t like at Hunter’s age he hadn’t been left on his own for hours and hours.

Hunter took that moment to look up from the video game he was playing. “You’ve got ants in your pants. I’ll call you if we’re bleeding or something, but otherwise, we’ll order a pizza for supper.”

Karl planted a kiss on both his boys’ heads.

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, but I might bring a friend back, split that pizza with you.”

Indy just nodded and Hunter looked solemn, but he didn’t look worried. Neither one of them seemed to mind that school was starting next week, and the neighborhood was chock-full of kids, none of whose parents Karl really knew because it wasn’t like Nat had ever wanted to come here or bring the boys with her. Funny how things could change so very quickly after dragging out so very long.

\--

The door really was open—the back one, the one friends always used after punching in the code on the gate and going up the side of the house and in the back yard, up the back steps to the third-floor apartment. Not that he’d been to Chris’ so often as Chris had been to his place, but still. He did have the code programmed into his phone, and what a life line that had become, that video he’d played and the photo and the text messages he’d saved instead of punching the wall or drinking too much or saying something aloud that he would regret because she’d still mothered his children and Karl could still make his choices.

“Chris?” he called out, because his car was in the driveway, though that didn’t mean he wasn’t out walking somewhere.

“Living room,” came his voice, and Chris was sitting on his couch with a script and a pencil, his thick ugly glasses perched on his face, making notes while he was clad in a ratty white tee and sweats, looking skinny and pale and tired and barefoot, his hair longish and undone and flopped into his face. All Karl’s thoughts escaped him as Chris looked up and smiled in welcome as he simply said nothing, just set down the script and the pencil on the table beside him.

Karl swallowed, thought about words, thought about those poems that Chris had given and that he’d read almost too late, but Chris stood up from the couch and walked over and Karl could then close the distance between them in a way that he would never have been able to before he’d left for New Zealand—so yes, he’d done what he’d had to and now he was home.

“I’m here, but in case there was any doubt, the answer was yes. Is yes,” he managed, and Chris smiled even more widely, and Karl grinned like a fool because—well, he was one—and then he kissed Chris like he’d wanted to and hadn’t when he’d let him walk out the door because Chris had been right back when he’d been married.

He wasn’t now.

Chris’ leg had somehow hiked its way up to just under his ass, pulling him closer, and they were rutting like two teenagers in heat instead of doing something about it. “Bedroom’s this way,” Chris said, then grabbed him by the wrist and tugged him, pulled him with no more words to a shaded room and a bed with simple grey linens that hadn’t been made.

“You haven’t been eating,” Karl managed, when he got Chris out of his shirt and sweatpants and took in the skinnier lines, the _lessening_ of him, even as he was wiry and muscled. But he’d lost a stone, maybe more, and to Karl’s eye, looked almost fragile even if his expression right now was so fiercely determined.

Chris kissed him breathless, then he pulled off Karl’s shirt, explaining as he kissed his way down to Karl’s navel. “Role. Great Depression. Vagabond-hero. Kind of Tom Joad once he goes out on the road. I’m supposed to be skinny.”

He swirled his tongue in Karl’s navel, then sucked and tongued in a move that made Karl gasp as he worked at his belt buckle. “I haven’t been pining. I knew you’d be back, that little courthouse dustup was all over the net. No comment. Hah.” His eyes twinkled—happy.

Belt buckle undone, he yanked Karl’s pants down to his thighs, then mouthed Karl’s dick through his boxers, briefly laying his cheek against Karl’s hip with his eyes closed in a movement so—vulnerable—that Karl felt gutted because yes—he’d had to finish his marriage, but he’d had his kids to console him.

Had Chris confided in anyone the whole time he was gone—or hell, the whole time before?

He dropped to his knees, caught Chris’ mouth, somehow managed himself out of his pants and both of them out of their shorts and onto their beds until the only thing left between them was longing.

Its first fulfillment was short, the kissing and rutting too much for either one of them to hold out, and they both laughed until Karl went up to get a washcloth and water, laughing all the way back.

“Some sex gods we are.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Chris chuckled, then took the half emptied glass from Karl and drank the rest in one studied motion, his lips and throat working as his eyes bored into Karl the whole time.

“Practice makes perfect, they say,” Karl offered, because hell, Chris’ wettened lips on that glass—and Chris set it aside and slid down like he was reading his mind, the cold wet shock of his cheeks still bringing Karl’s cock back to life as he fondled his balls and sucked and swirled like Karl’s cock was the only thing he wanted in his mouth for the rest of his life—he couldn’t believe the refraction and stuttered a warning in just enough time for Chris to slide off with a pop, but instead of returning to kiss him, Chris slid lower, kissing the inside of Karl’s thigh and mouthing Karl’s balls before asking “Is this okay?” and swiping his hot tongue over Karl’s hole with a firm pressure that made him gasp in surprise.

He looked down, and Chris’ eyes burned with want as he looked up from between Karl’s thighs. Further down, his cock was red and heavy and bobbing, dripping onto the bed with pre-cum as he waited for Karl to answer.

“Yeah. Yes. Whatever you want.”

Chris didn’t waste any more time, and his tongue swiped again over Karl’s pucker, hard and then soft, circling and darting up and around with occasional detours to lave at Karl’s balls while one hand made sure Karl’s cock wasn’t left out of the action. He wasn’t sure at what point his legs had ended up completely over Chris’ shoulders, or where all the lube had come from—he was sure he’d never whimpered in bed like this in his life, but Chris’ tongue, soft and yet stabbing inside him in time with his hand, slick on his cock, working him in this slow, torturous rhythm until Karl was thrashing and begging and grinding down onto Chris' tongue and shit—was that a finger or two?  Shit, was that three fingers inside him?

“Fuck, Karl, you’re so hot,” Chris gasped, wiping his face with the back of his hand, and yeah, that had to be three fingers inside him because Chris’ other hand was jacking his cock. “Wanted you for so long.”

There was a brief pause as he stopped pumping Karl’s dick long enough to roll on a condom, and Karl wasn’t coherent enough to babble out he was sure Chris was clean and he sure as hell was a virgin, but then Chris was removing his fingers and bracing himself and Karl was shoving himself against Chris as wantonly as he could because goddamn—he was empty and he wanted all of that thick gorgeous cock _right fucking now_.

Chris laughed as he slid all the way in, laughed like a damned little kid, his whole body shaking with laughter, and Karl blinked as the motion jammed Chris all the way in, stuffed Karl to the root and fuck that was _good_.

“Oh. Did I say that out loud?”

Chris nodded, still laughing, his eyes watery with tears. “Yes, Karl, you did. Never figured you for a cockslut, but hey, whatever you want.”

Karl smiled, giddy and sex-drunk and whatever this was. Love? It had been so fucking long.  Like a punch to the chest in the best of all possible ways, he couldn't breathe for the look on Chris' face.

He hooked his heels behind Chris’ back and Jesus—yeah—he was practically splitting wide open, this was just—fuck. But it would be even better if Chris would move so he could feel it over and over again.

“Move, damn you.”

Chris braced his hands on Karl’s shoulders and smiled some more. “I do like to bottom sometimes, you know.”

“We’ll see,” Karl gritted, and shoved him away until Chris had no choice but to slide out a little and – yeah, fucking yeah. “Just keep going for now. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

Chris’ eyes widened a bit as he slid back in, filling Karl up again and Karl grunted in extreme satisfaction. “Christ. That…”

“Yeah. Do that…”

And he did.

\--

The pizza guy was just pulling up as Karl and Chris did. Karl paid the man, then let them both into the house, since this was L.A., not Auckland, and it wasn’t the same for the boys to leave things unlocked.

He preceded Chris in as his two boys looked up, then arched an eyebrow. “Three pizzas? Isn’t that a bit greedy?”

Hunter got up and went to the kitchen, pulling down glasses and plates, then started setting the table. “You said you might be bringing a friend. One for me and Indy tonight and for breakfast, one just for you, one for your friend, although we didn’t know who so we got one vegetarian. Eeew.”

Indy echoed the “eew,” and behind him, still in the doorway, Chris chuckled.

Indy looked up. “You’re Captain Kirk!”

Chris put on his best company smile, looking a little bit strained. “Yeah, but you guys can call me Chris.” Hunter looked more than impressed, then threw Karl for the loop of all times.

“You’re daddy’s friend, the one that he talked to while he and mommy broke up.”

Indy looked to his brother, then over at Karl, who was too busy looking at Chris. He hadn’t said a damned thing, and his phone was password protected.

Karl shook his head. “I …”

Hunter came over and took the pizzas. “Everybody needs friends, Daddy. And I have a picture of my best friend Sandy, so why shouldn’t you have one of Chris on your phone?”

Ah. Clearly, he needed to change his phone password. It was a good thing he and Chris had never exchanged anything steamy over their texts.

Chris cleared his throat. “Right. Absolutely. And I happen to not mind vegetarian pizzas, because of all the time I hang out with Zach, who plays Mr. Spock. So I can totally handle those veggies for you.”

Hunter nodded approvingly, and took Chris by the wrist as he dragged him into the house. “Cool. You sit here, next to daddy.”

Chris took his seat as Indy and Hunter opened the pizzas and pulled cans of soda out of the fridge.

“Chris, you want diet? Actors always want diet,” Indy asked, juggling cans.

Karl shook his head, took a look at the scene unfolding before him—then closed the door and entered his home.

\---

Author’s Notes:

The El Greco Evangelist I referred to is here:

and this is the Magdalen painting:

 

If you don’t know Simon and Garfunkel’s Homeward Bound, well, you should: 

 

If you’re curious, Chris gave Karl a copy of Philip Larkin’s The Whitsun Weddings, often considered his finest work, though The Less Deceived is a hard and close second. And the poem Chris starred in Auden is this one.

The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well  
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,  
But on earth indifference is the least  
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn  
With a passion for us we could not return?  
If equal affection cannot be,  
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am  
Of stars that do not give a damn,  
I cannot, now I see them, say  
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,  
I should learn to look at an empty sky  
And feel its total dark sublime,  
Though this might take me a little more time.


End file.
